


ice in the eyes, fire in the heart

by mushroomherb



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, Hurt Hannibal Lecter, Light Angst, M/M, National Hockey League, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, hockey player!hannibal, ice dancer!will, mentioned past Will Graham/Matthew Brown, not Matthew Brown friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26299252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomherb/pseuds/mushroomherb
Summary: Everything happened so fast and next thing he knew, Hannibal was thrown, slammed directly against the penalty box.Crash, silence rang in his ears.And for a moment Will Graham wanted to fuck it all and run across the rink, shove everyone aside to bend down and take hold of elegant hand and kiss his forehead and say that everything was going to be okay.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 121





	ice in the eyes, fire in the heart

He loved Molly, he truly did. As much as he loved his late mama, papa too, who both had been long gone. More than he loved Beverly or Price or Zeller or his other colleagues who he knew from ice rinks. A little more than he loved Alana and Margot. Though, much less than his three canine companions. But he loved her, truly. She was an outstanding partner, graceful on the ice, even when Will had to swing her around like a ragdoll. And the amount of trust they put into each other, it probably was far from lacking.

Although, now, he believed that love reduced for a great _tiny_ bit. Just a bit. But still.

Because– because her mouth was as loose as a used hairband, not afraid of speaking out, definitely not afraid of consequences. Consequences as _this_. Whatever _this_ was. They had been finishing up their third run-through of their ice dance performance, when she spat out a series of rapid fire of _there’s gonna be a hockey game today_ , and _please come with me_ , and _come on it’s gonna be fun_ , and _come, I take only yes as an answer_. Proceeded by practically dragging Will across the entire compound, to the other ice rink, the one The Olympics used for the actual competitions.

Loud murmurs filled Will’s ears as they sat at the front row, the male ice dancer a little more anxious than needed, Molly the exact opposite after succeeding in _coaxing_ Will to come with her, said again and again that she just wanted to watch the game, and _not_ because of some _other_ reason. She didn’t even say who were playing against each other. Will only knew it was his country versus a strong opponent. And then he noticed the flurry of colours, of white and red and small bits of black, and– _fucking maple leaves_.

Yeah, _fuck_. Because– because _then_ Molly’s nagging and dragging had made so much fucking sense. _Fucking maple leaves_. That meant _fucking_ Canada. That meant he’d catch sight of the _strong_ and _fast_ forward with number 22 on his back and chest. The European descent who was selected first overall several years earlier by the Ravenstags, glorious in his black jerseys and esurient stare of raven-haired stags. Elegant captain who had overflowing grace as much as ten out of ten skill set. Yeah, utterly _fucked_ , Will was.

It would be a little more over a year since he last seen _him_ face to face. Though, at the moment face to face meant behind thick glass protection and many layers of faces and eyes. _Still_.

The crowd around him wore the exact same thing aforementioned, except for the addition of blue, deeper shade, almost like a purple, but blue, a stark difference to his eyes, and stars as the substitute of maple leaves. He himself was wearing nothing of all that, clad in black and greys (oh nice, the colours of the Ravenstags).

They –Will and Molly, partners on ice, best friends out of ice, Will was the godfather of Molly’s little boy– were not scheduled to compete until the next week, and Will had thought, that maybe the swerve of direction from their dorms to ice hockey rink was not so bad, take some of the tenses off of their shoulders for a bit.

It was definitely _not_ for _other_ reason that he hadn’t ran away from his spot the second he realised _fucking_ Canada was playing.

And there they were.

For the first few minutes of the game, he’d concocted, at least, seven different ways to get out of there as quick as possible. Of course, one of them being the easiest way of having bladder emergency, or the lowest blow, using one of his many headaches as a pathetic of an excuse, but then the image of worried Molly over his lies came to mind and he rendered his anxiety down with deep breaths and thoughts of his dogs. Her reassuring hand grounding him too on his thigh.

She was gonna pay, for sure, maybe at their next practice, swing her a little harder. _Bleh_ , Molly wouldn’t even be scared of that.

“–did you go?” he heard her ask. So Will tilted his head and looked at her, good thing to do to route his thoughts _away_ from _something (someone)_ else.

“Huh? Sorry, what, Mols?”

“Where were you, Will?” she asked, clear now as his focus was back to the present, to her, and the growing crowd around, heard some of them whispered about the ice dancing partners on the front row, but mostly they just ignored Will and Molly, respectful enough –excluding the occasional not-so-subtle picture taking.

He didn’t have an answer for her, so only a smile it was for the question he heard oh so many times in his life, Molly squeezed his palm at that. And he found his eyes and mind wandered off (and heart, if he wanted to be honest to himself) to the broad-shouldered player with the number 22, again. The very root of all of his train of thoughts. There was the letter C on his upper left chest, it used to be an A, about a year and a half ago, before Coach Crawford had _him_ chosen to be the next captain after Michael Kohlhaas’ retirement.

From his seat Will could see his stature clearly, face as angular ( _and disgustingly handsome_ ) as he always had been, rocking a light stubble that didn’t need to look that good on a man who had always chosen to be clean-shaven. Ash-blond hair tucked in well within the helmet, and it was without his permission that Will remembered soft caresses of his hands against said smooth hair on lazy mornings. Warm eyes, the colour like that of a raw forest honey (that he would always be familiar with) calm under the visor, yet sharp as an eagle’s, puck was never out of his sight. What would it feel like if those eyes were to flit upon his blue ones?

_Nope_. No. No.

Concentration was what 22 needed, not some pitiful excuse of a distraction, all wild curls with an even wilder set of eyes –icy, cold, but not like that of night time in winter storm. It was then that Will noticed he’d got the puck, being slid, controlled, _moved_ oh so skilfully by the elegant swipes of his stick. Left, right, left, between deathly sharp blades, so fast, so quick, closer to the enemy’s goalie, _come on, come on_ , chants of hope inside his chest for the man in control, he didn’t even want the United States to win, at that point.

He was not the biggest player on the rink, Will knew this, everyone knew this. Stood at about one point eight three meters, he was just an inch below average of ice hockey players’ heights. But damn if the man was not _fast_ and incredibly _smart_ and full of _superhuman_ strength, the complete package. Elegance and grace were also words people would never forget when describing the Lithuanian-born. In the past, Will had joked about him having the _pretty_ skating style of that of a figure skater and not the oncoming-military-tank type. Still valid, apparently, now, as he watched him rounded the rink with all of his aristocratic beauty, that the man carried everywhere, anytime of the day.

He skated through three huge players, absolutely monstrous presence, all obviously ordered to guide number 22, taller than the Canadian team’s captain. Though not smarter, they were, because the puck from his stick was passed right to Randall Tier who was at the left side of the rink, with total precision of course, before it had the chance to be caught by the hands of the enemy. And the three were bulldozed over in lightning speed by the captain’s teammate, Francis Dolarhyde, who was known for efficient attack and remorseless beast strength, despite his average size. Captain himself rounded the goal post from the back side of it, puck skidded over to him from his teammate when he skated close to the left corner and– under watchful eyes, one swipe of bruised and battered stick, _shoot_ –

“Oh! What a cunning goal! Hannibal Lecter and his beautiful goals!”

Will found himself smiling so wide.

That smile lasted only for three seconds, though.

Because then Anthony _fucking_ Dimmond came barrelling into Hannibal and engulfed him in a huge bear hug, for a long minute. And a flare of _fucking_ something in Will’s chest made him jump a little, for the strength of it reminded him of the time he was being the exact same thing, mere a year ago. Pointlessly a jealous stupid idiot. Even when he had zero rights to.

And–

Hannibal was smiling back at the _douche_ (Anthony was not a douche, far from it, but still). Will should have known that it was just joy from the goal. He must’ve had smiled like that to all of his teammates, when they had scored, when they had won the games, when they were just bickering with each other. _Still_.

Will wanted _that_ smile to only be for him.

_Well you shouldn’t have let him go, then, stupid idiot_.

What was it again, what was the good of _distance_ if he were to be bereft of that smile?

_Distance_. Sad, sad excuse.

Thrown back to years ago when Will would always be the receptive end of that smile and that joy. Fresh herbs fragrant in the air as he circled a kitchen island to wrap his arms around strong chest and even stronger, firm abdomen. Onions sautéed, caramelised to the point of his liking by deft hands, always with elegance as he did anything else, be it stick controlling, tuning the harpsichord every evening, or anything else.

He’d always be welcomed with kisses so passionately every time he went to the huge house after his practice, basically almost every day, then after when he climbed back to his car and having an internal altercation with his brain to just stay there and be in strong embrace, wake up with the aforementioned kisses, _more_ if he was in the mood, which was also always. Laid comfortably on broad chest, reading _Lee Child_ while Hannibal indulged in his Lithuanian literatures, sometimes also Romanian, Greek, Italian, German, mostly French and Danish, even Japanese at other times when he was feeling like a totally socially-acceptable snob. Dates to operas, fancy restaurants Will had grown to like over the time, fishing when he could _manipulate_ Hannibal into coming with him with promises of sweaty night _escapades_.

Those things cracked slowly, however, ever since Coach Crawford appointed Hannibal as the new captain. Hairline cracks, at first; practice that took so much of the older man’s time until late in the evening, forgotten dinners, no soft conversations in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Hannibal would fall asleep fairly quick, or Hannibal somewhere so far away in his head, Hannibal looking at him without listening to him, just, a _distant_ Hannibal. He had then always come home with tired bones and shattered soul.

Will knew why. Pressure was too much even for Hannibal Lecter, from his coach, from the responsibility, but mostly from the media that had kept arguing whether he was a good choice for Ravenstags’ leader. Michael Kohlhaas’ retirement had been sudden, in truth, of his spine injury that had forced him out of the league sooner than everyone expected. So Hannibal was, he dared to say, _pushed_ into the position before he was fully ready.

He had also heard of rumours… one that he shouldn’t mind at all, but he did anyway, of Hannibal’s frequent day-out with his teammate and closest buddy, Anthony Dimmond. Hannibal seemed like he didn’t even know said rumour, like he heeded no interest in the tittle-tattle at all, not even acknowledging it, it seemed. Hannibal had also brought Will along to some of the Ravenstags’ parties, being introduced to Anthony and his other friends. And thus, Will momentarily put the unimportant issue at the back of his mind.

Will had waited, for Hannibal to realise what he was doing to him, because it was clear that the man himself did not notice his actions had hurt his partner, Will had been understanding, throughout the hard time, or he _tried_ to. But a man could only have so much patience.

One time, when it was all too much and it was obvious that Hannibal would not realise sooner, and Will could not contain the anger anymore, forcing Hannibal to sit down after succeeding in trapping him, mere few seconds after the man stepped into his home, was the only option he knew would work.

_Give me five minutes of your time, just five minutes, each day_ , he had said. _Plead_ , even, just because the three years he spent with Hannibal was the only time he ever felt _so_ , _so_ happy, so wanted, like his existence in this world finally meant something to someone.

And thus, when Hannibal went down to his knee, realising the error he had caused upon Will, words of _genuine_ apologies flew out of his mouth like it was all he was created to say, eyes glistened in the dim of light, accompanied by promises of trying to change himself for Will, for Will only, all the anger and flare of jealousy in the younger man’s body dissipated. Will knew his darling had and would always kept his promises.

That night, Hannibal made love to him with something Will believed to be _reverence_.

What happened, then, that he went and strayed away from dark eyes full of adoration?

Will’s time to be the idiot. Will’s time to be the stupid one, obtuse, even. For it was he who distanced himself from Hannibal Lecter the second it became too tough in his sick brain to handle. The man was still always exhausted out of his soul each time he came back from practice, coupled with words, that had circled the internet since he became captain, all of foul origin by the despicable self-proclaimed journalist, Freddie Lounds. _Lecter is the worst captain to ever grace the NHL’s rink. 22’s atrocious leadership out and on ice_. _Kohlhaas’ lowly, downgraded replacement._ Everything he did would be harshly criticised by the woman. Just because he wasn’t as good as Michael Kohlhaas, yet. Just because he was still learning and once in a while Hannibal did not perform his best. The articles were biased, of course, since Freddie Lounds was a die-hard Coyotes fan, Ravenstags’ long-standing rival, but those words still did damage to Hannibal.

And yet, _yet_ , he had proven himself to Will that he really did try to change, distant Hannibal was practically thrown out of his window onto the garbage the day after he was confronted about it.

Will was the stupid one, indeed. Headaches started coming one day, returning each day more than he wanted it to, when he was home enjoying Hannibal’s exquisite black coffee, when he was out with the dogs, when he was reading some detective series in Hannibal’s huge library. Other than headaches, there was confusion, sometimes also like he lost some hours in the day. Practice had become the only moment when he found he could truly relax, minimum headaches and even when one occurred, it wasn’t one that pounded him in the head like being trapped in a rain, a concrete block rain.

Thus, stayed away from anything else besides practice, Will had. Started using reasons he himself hard to believe to evade Hannibal’s hundred-course dinners, staying with Molly or the other dancers slash figure skaters, despite being invited to high-society operas, shied away from questions from the older man when he started to suspect something was not right with Will Graham.

Hannibal had had enough in his mind, on his shoulders. Will chose to keep it that way for he couldn’t bear anymore _shit_ to befall the man in such short period of time.

He did check himself one day, after Alana recommended him to Doctor Sutcliffe and– the doctor had said it was encephalitis. Some kind of… brain inflammation or some sort. Damn if he were to tell Hannibal about his condition.

So, when he had found what to do in order to not be a burden in Hannibal’s life, he ended things up with the only man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Being a pathetic coward hiding behind _needing distance_. Did not even have the courage to look at confusedly pained face that he had caused, did not even wait for Hannibal to say something back, to reason, to hold Will from going away with some semblance of hope that lingered still in the remnants of their relationship.

That day, in the dead of night, he went away from warm eyes and soothing embrace without realising that he had lost part of his own self there.

Weeks passed by, days, he had heard of Hannibal going from one apartment to another, a hotel to another, called every friends of Will’s to find the younger man. Succeeded only after approximately five months, Alana’s slip of tongue, and he had not prepared anything when Hannibal came knocking on his door. A _lovely_ and palliative smile on his face from only the sight of Will’s figure.

What a sight to behold, when Hannibal was like that.

Just to be shattered again a few seconds after, when Matthew Brown came from inside the house, stood slightly behind clad only in black boxer briefs and white tee, an aura of overprotectiveness.

For the first time in his life, when deep brown flit over to green, Will watched the light in Hannibal’s eyes went out. And the strong shoulders slumped for two seconds before blond head dipped down and he walked away from Will’s house without even a word.

_Congratulations, Will Graham, you had succeeded in breaking the heart of the only man you love._

Nothing seemed like an importance right then, but to run after the man, to slid his arms over muscled abdomen and hold tight for dear life, to say _I’m sorry_ again and again against broad shoulders, to be turned towards sculpted face and be held in Hannibal’s embrace, for forever.

Except, there was another hand grasping his arm in a possessive way, grounding him in his spot, trying to be calming although it did nothing of the sorts to him at all.

When the Bentley roared up and away from his driveway, Will turned back and forced a smile to the dark-haired man. Matthew Brown tugged him inside and Will followed blindly, on autopilot.

Truth was, Matthew was nothing. The presence of _something_ he had been desperately craving since walking away from Hannibal Lecter, a mere pole for him to hold on to for his life, a sense of _stability_ , one that had been demolished few months before.

He never saw Hannibal again after that –excluding his miserable _stalking_ through the NHL’s official page, the Ravenstags’ page on social media, the Youtube clips of his games that he watched just to get a sight of Hannibal. Some sparked jealousy from deep within, Hannibal smiling so joyously after winning a game, Hannibal shyly showing his pre-game routine in the locker room, Hannibal joking around with his teammates and pranked each other, Hannibal in an embrace with Anthony Dimmond. _That_ was the worst. He had known the both of them were close, hell he had met Anthony himself a few other times. But– there seemed to be _a lot_ of pictures of them together, videos taken of them smiling and laughing with each other in languages Will had a difficult time to decipher, more now than it used to be before. And the jealousy went back to the front of his brain after that.

It had come to his senses, when he noticed Hannibal’s smiles in the pictures and the videos, those smiles never reached his eyes, came to his senses that he _really_ had no rights whatsoever to feel like that, _again_ , after dumping the only man Will knew to ever made love to him with all the love and devotion he had. Came to his senses also, that he could not treat Matthew Brown unfairly like he had been doing, treated him only as a _rebound,_ crudely speaking. And so, a month after Hannibal’s visit, he came clean to Matthew, apologising in earnest.

Needless to say, the man took it _very_ poorly. Thrashing the furniture in Will’s house around and screaming at the top of his lungs with overflowing profanities. It was a miracle that the man had not tried to kill him.

The months after that went by in his state of limbo.

***

He went back from the black hole that was his thoughts only when Molly shook his shoulder, sent a sorry excuse of a smile her way before focusing back on the somehow slightly soothing of the announcers’ voices, and to the ice rink, of course (to the man who just scored a goal, of course).

22 was his main focus, had come down from the euphoria of scoring a goal, apparently, and the game presumed with team Canada in the lead. Will spotted Matthew Brown on the defence line, puck with his stick before the American passed it over his teammate, bringing the small thing further away from their goalpost. Canada got hold of the puck a few times, stolen by the opponent a few other times, back to their hands, and nothing big seemed like to happen at first.

But Will, observant as ever, spied the figure of Matthew _prowling_ in closer to Hannibal, had been, actually, since the last goal scored, like a shadow that needed not be there. Wary was an understatement for what Will was feeling, for he knew _something_ was about to happen.

And then, when Hannibal sped over from the outer side of the rink, Anthony Dimmond was guiding the puck closer to team America’s goalie, slid it over to Hannibal when he noticed the captain skated over a line of strong defence, still parallel with the rink, just getting closer and closer to his target. Puck was with Hannibal and he was on his way to try tricking Tobias Budge into thinking that he was going his way straight, only to turn his whole body around and evaded the tall man, when an unexpected presence came right into him in lightning speed and animalistic power.

Everything happened so fast and next thing he knew, Hannibal was _thrown_ , slammed directly against the penalty box, so forceful that the glass shattered, so _loud_ that he could practically hear the crush of hard hockey gears and a slab of thick glass. And he found himself standing so quickly at the sight of Hannibal Lecter, _thrown_ back from the whiplash, visor destroyed from the impact, completely still on the ice as shallow breaths escaped his battered lungs. Blue eyes wide in shock, Anthony Dimmond was the first to get the team doctor to Hannibal.

_Oh God no_.

Silence filled the entire arena as the doctor fully assessed the captain. Curious glances along the hitching of breaths. Will forgot how to breathe. Even with Molly’s warm hands circling his arm, even with soft circles rubbed on his skin, even with the presence of a medical doctor beside _his_ Hannibal. Nothing mattered to him, nothing grasped his mind when Hannibal laid cold and _weak_ on the ice. Hannibal was never weak.

The man was still on the ground when Will stood a little straighter, he noticed no moves from him except for the heaving of chest. And at that Will made a mistake, of looking up the captain’s face, that just made it worse. Because dark eyes narrowed already at his direction, straight at his seat. For a moment Will Graham wanted to _fuck_ it all and run across the rink, shove everyone aside to bend down and take hold of elegant hand and kiss his forehead and say that everything was going to be okay. For a moment, before he took attention of blood trailing down of Hannibal’s nose and–

_I’m okay_.

Will stopped breathing for a second.

Hannibal was not okay. Hannibal was not okay and it was all because of his insane ex. Hannibal was not okay and Matthew Brown was going to pay for every second of it. Hannibal was not–

_I’m okay, Will_.

He went out of his daze only when Hannibal smiled, directly at him, mouthed a small and weak ‘ _breathe_ ’ to him. Realised only then that he wasn’t imagining things, that Hannibal really was looking at him and mouthing silent words to him, probably he had noticed the presence of a wild-haired American ice dancer in the crowd, probably had _smelled_ him even with the distraction of so many people, of sweat and ice mingling in the air, probably since the first step Will took inside the arena.

Crinkling on the corners of dark eyes, mouthing assurance again even though he himself was the one in need of that, eyes stayed on blue that looked like the sky in summer, for as long as he could, blinking once in a while, upturn of lips in the subtlest way possible, so as not to attract any more attention, so as not to be declared of having some kind of brain trauma for talking to _nothing_ in the air.

Hannibal didn’t even once stray from Will’s worried gaze.

It was another few minutes of hopeful prayers and utter silence until the doctor helped Captain Lecter to stand up –Will would never understand how hockey players could just _up and leave_ after an injury like nothing had happened at all, especially Hannibal, the epitome of tranquil himself, sure the man had dealt with body checks and aggressive behaviours before, but this one was probably the hardest he ever got hit–, and then Hannibal was forced to turn his body around, away from comforting presence of blue, away from rosy-tinted cheeks in the cold beneath dark wood curls who had always brought hope in the darkest of situations. Erupted then a round of applause as he was being escorted out of the rink and straight to the hospital. Apparently there were no other injuries visible besides his nose in an array of destroyed bones, but he still needed to be checked of possible internal bleeding, brain trauma, shits like that.

_Fuck you, Matthew Brown_.

Will didn’t even notice the lingering gaze of the imbecile who caused Hannibal _that_. Didn’t notice the anger still raging in those vicious green eyes as his own followed 22 until the number was no longer in the vicinity of his sight. He _refused_ to pay Matthew Brown even a minuscule of his attention. He only wanted to _get out_ , _follow_ Hannibal to the hospital, _stay_ there until he was sure nothing was threatening the man’s life or career.

He almost did that, ready legs and stubborn mind, were it not for Molly’s firm grasp on his right bicep.

“Would do no good. He’s going to be checked and all that hospital bullshit before you can even visit him. Stay, I’ll come with you, tomorrow?”

_Tomorrow is too long_. Almost said that. But he knew Molly was right. Always right, she was. So he nodded. Wanting the time to tick ten times faster. And wanting nothing more than to make an ice rink from the expanse of Matthew Brown’s neck, skate with every pressure he got around it until it bled non-stop.

***

An understatement it was, to say of Jack Crawford’s exclamation points in his face, when Molly and Will caught the sight of him standing full attention with a doctor. The both of them walked brusquely down the hospital hallway and stopped right in front him, in front of Hannibal Lecter’s room. Molly smiled at the huge coach, small talks over the condition of the athlete inside, Will listened to her in silence and _panic_ , paying no minds and just wanted to go in, though he made an amazing job at hiding his inner wants.

Coach Crawford needed not hear anymore to let the ice dancer in, heard a small _thanks_ from the man to his partner while he slid the door open, closed it softly just a second later. Molly stayed outside to talk with the coach.

Will looked around the room in one swipe, boring four-walled of grey and white paint. Subtle artistic detail only from the yellow birch of wall accent and some fixtures. No flowers yet. Ah, he didn’t even bring the captain some flowers, hydrangea was his favourite.

At that, he focused himself on the only other occupant of the room.

Hannibal laid calm on the hospital bed, clad in a light blue gown under the comforter, it must be _very_ uncomfortable for him. The gown, the bed, sure that Hannibal was discomfited in said gown. Humiliated, even, to be prodded about in a flimsy clothing. So uncomfortable, for Hannibal’s bed at home was four times larger, probably a hundred times softer.

Blue eyes roamed over muscled body and– then– _left hand in a cast_.

_Matthew Brown broke Hannibal’s hand_. _Hand_. The one thing he _needed_ the most for his games.

He was sure he would hunt down the monster of America’s team himself before sundown.

“Will,” Will snapped his head up at his name being called. Meeting Hannibal’s warm gaze in an instant. And then a smile, also warm and inviting, _soothing_ , one that reached his tired eyes. He took a deep breath, let his _okay_ hand out from under the safe protection of sheet, palm up, clear invitation, “come sit, Will,” he said. Hannibal must have been awakened and noticed another human’s presence in the room, in the span of time Will used to plan the annihilation of a particular someone.

“He broke your hand,” the younger man answered instead, could feel anger boiling at the thought of _crash, silence_ , of deliberate, unnecessary, and brutal body check, malice intention, dangerous revenge (what of revenge if he didn’t have any reason to avenge for?). Fortunately, no more blood down Hannibal’s nose, bones in place too.

A pained chuckle, that got Will furrow his eyebrows together, and he heard, “Would you just come here, Will?” from the man in bed. So will did, sure steps closer to the owner of raspy, rich voice.

Fine-boned hand in his clasps in a matter of second, right after bum touched hard chair. An exhale, two, Will ducked his head, forehead resting on the knuckles of the hand he was firmly grasping, one-two, one-two, let the silence calm his erratic heartbeat, let the calloused skin of rough hockey player settle against his. He only looked up again when Hannibal called his name very softly, he could only respond with the slightest brush of lips on the skin coloured like it was dipped in honey. Will had missed how beautiful the stark difference of their skin tones was.

“He broke your hand,” he said again, looking exactly at Hannibal Lecter, to gauge his reaction. He found only mirth and gaiety.

“Comes with the job, and at least it’s not an open wound,” came the reply. Couldn’t help but laugh at the Canadian’s joke. 

Will looked over the older man’s face after their laughter died down and they went back to comfortable silence. Hannibal’s smile never faltered from the obvious stare, tangle of hands being gripped tighter. The captain’s chuckle emitted softly, a bit louder when Will’s only reaction was furrowed eyebrows and bemusement. He wiggled with all the strength he got, made a room for curly head on the narrow hospital bed, barely fit for himself, but proceeded with the act nonetheless.

The younger man rolled his eyes good-naturedly before succumbing to weakness and climbed beside Hannibal, making himself as small as possible so Hannibal would still be comfortable.

Strong hand went automatically to grasp his delicate one, it took ultimate lifetime-worth of control not to _blush_ and Will willed himself to gaze back at dark irises. “You’re okay?” he found himself asking, voice so soft and light, hint of concern tapered off at the answering gaze.

Hannibal smiled before letting his voice out, “With you here now, I am confident I will be okay in the next couple hours.”

One corner of Will’s lips turned upwards, eyes closed for three seconds in contentment, _Hannibal is okay, Hannibal is okay_. He wouldn’t need to actually _kill_ the perpetrator, at least. But then– _then_ , he caught the meaning of the captain’s words, and those lips went straight back to a frown.

Before he could even think of something to say other than, “No, no, no, no. No, Hannibal. You’re saying– don’t, your hand– wouldn’t it be painful? No, Hannibal, you’re not just gonna go back to the rink like your hand’s not broken. No,” a stupidly sappy wide grin was the answer to that rambling. Will jerked his body backwards in disbelief, pointer finger making small, nail-shaped dents on Hannibal’s chest.

“No, stop, you don’t get to smile like that. _You_ , you are gonna stay here until I deem you okay to play again,” Will said again, face as serious as he could be. Although he knew very well those words made no effect on Hannibal, not even the slightest turn of brain to think the words over.

At the face Hannibal made, Will could only sigh in deep irritation. His hand was brought up to be kissed by lips he had known to map every night all those years ago, and heard accented voice answered with a hint of amusement, “I would listen to you, were it not The Olympics. My friends, my teammates need me, Will. Also, being cooped up in this godforsaken box does not sound that much fun either.”

Another intake of deep breath, Will shook his head lightly at the man in front of him, exasperated. He considered to just nod and let it go, seeing nothing would shake the iron-clad decision of Hannibal’s. But an idea came to his mind and he almost let the wicked smile out if not for the expressions he was about to get from Hannibal’s face.

“Fine. Okay. But–“

“But?” ah, would be a waste for Will not to grin at the impatience of the most patient man he had come to know in the world.

“On two conditions,” he paused just to see the reaction his words fished out of Hannibal, suffice to say it was not disappointing. Although Hannibal merely raised an eyebrow, the twitch of his upper lip, the _curiosity_ in those deep ocean of eyes, and the slight tremble of anticipation from his hand said enough for Will.

Will smiled a little before continuing, “You’re going to let me apologise to you, Hannibal,” a protest was on its way if it was not for him shushing the hockey player up.

He had thought of words to say for the moment he apologised, had thought of sentences he made in his head when the moment came, but alas, everything died down to only, “I’m sorry, Hannibal,” with all the sincerity he had left, conveying the massive guilt he had brought with himself for the past year, wanting nothing more than to beg to be forgiven, beg for Hannibal to take him away with him anywhere if it meant he could be with Hannibal again, for the rest of his life.

Hannibal sighed and eyelashes of light colour tickled the skin under his eyes before he looked straight again at blue, Will had thought the man would say things among the lines of _you knew I was never mad at you_ , or one as simple as _I have forgiven you long time ago_ , such made the next words that came out of Hannibal’s mouth a little bit surprising for Will.

“I’m sorry, too, my love.”

Everything seemed okay, then. Nothing mattered anymore except that the bricks on his shoulder had been lifted up by Hannibal’s _mere_ words. Will could only hope the red staining his cheeks would not turn an even deeper shade. From the way those lips curled around the words, from the utter fondness inside dark eyes as he called the younger man his favourite endearment. A small, pleased smile graced his pale face and he forced himself to look up again before he forgot his second condition.

“And the second, Will?” apparently Hannibal had thought the same.

“Have dinner with me,” Hannibal’s eyes went wide, almost like that of a cat, dilated in the most beautiful way, Will shook his head again to correct the wordings, “hm, no. You, for the price of going straight back to your games, you _have_ to make me dinner,” pressure added at the word _have_ , Hannibal nodded, but Will wasn’t done.

“That applies every night from now on, baby, or– or go to some fancy restaurants that you like so much, with me, always with me,” another nod, surer, “maybe I can cook for you once in a while, you have to let me, yeah?” Hannibal’s nods did not stop at that point, eagerness clear on his face, and Will continued, not even realising the slip of his tongue at the pet name, “for the next thousand years, okay?”

Nods not stopping, Will grinned wider when Hannibal closed the small distance between them and dropped a warm kiss upon his forehead first, to his eyes, both cheeks and practically every inch of his face, before lingering longer on the younger man’s lips.

Another minute was spent in tangles of limbs and lips, in between Will’s desperate whispers of _miss you_ , _I miss you so much, baby_ , and _I’m sorry_ , _I’m sorry_ , that had been cut off fairly quickly by the onslaught of Hannibal’s own reassuring that _everything is okay_ , _now that you’re here_ , _it’s okay, it’s okay, my love_.

Hannibal kissed him one more time before moving back a little, only to look at the flushed face of Will Graham’s, taking credit of plump-kissed lips, smiling stupidly like an embarrassing teenager having a crush, revelling in how easy it was to come back to the warmth that was Will.

Breathing came back to normal and he found himself asking, “Fancy a jambalaya feast, my love?”

Will’s answering smile was merry if not radiant, “Yes, yes, Hannibal.”

**Author's Note:**

> I came back with a very random hockey au. didn't know why I even wrote this lol, I like ice hockey and was watching a game when this idea of a hurt Hannibal came suddenly and I just had to write it.
> 
> I was a bit confused at first, wanted Will to be the hockey player watching figure skater Hannibal being cheated, like what happened to Nancy Kerrigan, since Hannibal's a dancer himself, you know. but, forgive me I am just so weak for wild-haired ice dancer Will lol
> 
> oh, at the end, by the time Will visited Hannibal, his encephalitis was much better. I was just lazy to write that detail in, sorry lol
> 
> also sorry if there are things I wrote that does not match with the real The Olympics, please do correct me, thank you very much


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